


Heart (in hand) Home (in you)

by Sarah_Sandwich



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Harley Keener-centric, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Peter, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Sarah_Sandwich
Summary: It’s snowing. Harley is cold and tired and sick. Peter is devastatingly in love with him. What more do you need to know?
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 112





	Heart (in hand) Home (in you)

Harley's socks are wet.

Thick snowflakes drift around him casting a hush over the normally bustling city sidewalk. Streetlights dot the road, pockets of soft warm light highlighting the falling flakes in all of their splendor. His breath puffs in front of his lips as a woman brushes past him, her long tan coat swishing around her ankles while her boots crunch atop the thin dusting of snow, seemingly unaffected by the thrall that grabbed hold of him and pulled him half a step out of sync with the rest of the world.

Or maybe it’s his throbbing headache that has him half-expecting to run into a wall of glass as a small child shakes up the city to make the snow swirl faster.

His _socks_ are wet.

He didn’t leave home this morning ready for a snow squall. He wasn’t ready for much anything, to put it bluntly. He didn’t roll out of bed until the very last minute, leaving only enough time to suck down a cup of coffee and blow his nose seven times before trudging out the door in nothing but a hoodie and his sneakers. After a week in bed, he’s woefully out of touch and the lingering pressure in his head and his stuffed up nose aren’t helping him get back into the swing of things. He should have stayed in bed but Peter’s meager paycheck from the Bugle isn’t enough to cover rent on its own so that means his sorry ass had to go to work, sinus infection be damned.

Which is how he ended up out here, trekking home from the subway station, his uncovered ears aching with cold, and his naked fingers long since numb.

And his _socks_ are _wet._

His shoes squelch on the steps as he pushes into the apartment complex. The weak, barely-there heat of the stairwell welcomes him home as he makes the hike up to the fifth floor, not bothering with the ancient musty elevator that Peter says drives his Spider-Sense batshit.

He stops outside number 54 and fumbles his keys out of his pocket with unfeeling fingers. They hit the threadbare carpet with a clatter. The rubber Swiper the Fox keychain—a prank gift from Abbie that’s now worn almost beyond recognition—survives the drop. The plastic Spider-Man figure on the other hand, not so much.

“Oh come on,” he mutters, stooping to collect the plastic arm that popped free from its socket.

“Everything alright?”

He blinks up at the open door across the hall and the wizened face peeking out of it, her wiry hair covered by a floral nightcap.

“Oh, hey Mrs. Thomas,” he greets, squinting to make out her expression through the yellow light starbursting around her from within her apartment like a halo cranked up to maximum wattage, shadowing her already dark complexion. His head throbs. “How’re things?”

“Where’s your boy?” she asks, checking the empty hallway before facing him once more with a stern frown. “Isn’t he meant to be takin’ care of you? You look one mean word away from keelin’ over.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “He’s still at work, I think. Should be home soon though.”

“Hmm.” She presses her lips together and with a pointed look at his soggy sneakers says, “You get dry and warm, you hear? It ain’t good for you to be cold and wet when you’re sick.”

“Yes, ma’am.” After three years of being across-the-hall neighbors, he knows better than to try and argue that a sinus infection isn’t going to be affected one way or another by cold wet feet.

“Don’t get that tone with me,” she says. “It’s just as important to be healthy up here,” she taps her nightcap, “as anywhere else. Being warm and dry can only help.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, abashed.

“You said you’re expecting Peter soon?”

He nods, digging a knuckle into the corner of his eye and giving it a good rub. “Yeah, he didn’t text me that he’d be late or anything.”

“Good. I found that recipe I was telling him about the other night. A hot brothy soup’ll do the trick. Just enough spice to keep things draining.”

“That sounds great,” he says as his stomach clenches in fear. He’s not sure how much more of Peter’s cooking he can survive. He’s never known anyone so adept at making gritty soup in his life, but Peter manages it with baffling consistency. He’s gotta be dumping protein powder in it even though he swears up and down he isn’t.

“I’ll wait for him,” Mrs. Thomas says with a kind expression. He must look even worse than he feels. “You go get warm, honey.”

“Alright. Have a good night. Give Mittens a pet for me.”

“Consider it done.”

This time, his fingers cooperate and he succeeds in fitting his key into the lock. His chilled cheeks and ears sting in the heat of their over-warm apartment as he crosses the threshold. It’s a problem with being on the topmost floor of the building. Heat rises blah blah. It doesn’t matter how low they set their thermostat, it’s always too warm.

Today, he’s willing to forgive the poor architectural design.

He toes out of his sneakers and tosses his keys onto the rickety two-person table tucked against the wall. He’s pretty sure it’s meant to be an end table, not a dining table, but whatever. They usually eat on the couch anyway—only clearing the assortment of mail and odds and ends off the table for special occasions or if May is visiting or if they get a notice for an overdue bill that they misplaced and forgot to pay.

He doesn’t bother with the lights. The muted dark of their empty apartment is downright blissful after a day under harsh fluorescents.

He shoots Peter a quick text warning him to use the door when he gets home—he’ll know it means Mrs. Thomas is expecting him—then leaves his phone beside his keys and the detached Spider-Man arm on the table and slumps into the bedroom, stripping off his damp hoodie as he goes. He’s tempted to collapse face-down into the pillows and never move again, but Mrs. Thomas has a good point.

And he _hates_ wet socks.

Finally, he peels the wet socks off of his frozen feet, tossing them unceremoniously at the overflowing hamper in the closet. Thinking longingly of Abbie’s collection of thick fuzzy socks, he settles for his best pair of boot socks and Pete’s Spider-Man slippers.

He should have asked for socks for Christmas. It’s probably not too late. Peter never does anything until the last minute and Christmas is still a few days away. He could probably use the reminder anyway. He gets all swept away with Hanukkah so Christmas tends to sneak up on him. Besides, after a week of missed pay, socks are about all they can afford.

He doesn’t waste time searching for a clean sweater that probably doesn’t exist and instead snags the thickest blanket from the heap on the bed and pulls it around his shoulders as he trudges out to the couch. He sinks into the cushions with a grateful sigh—aching muscles singing with relief—and his mind fuzzes over.

~*~

“Hey baby, how are you feeling?”

He painstakingly climbs back to consciousness to find Peter perched on the edge of the couch pressing a cool hand to his forehead. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold and the tip of his nose is an adorable pink. His hair is damp and curling above deep brown eyes.

“Gnnugh.”

A smile curls thin lips. “That good, huh? Mrs. Thomas was worried you over-did it today. She said you looked ready to drop when you got home.”

He grunts and pulls the blanket tighter against his neck. Nosy well-intentioned old woman. Can’t do anything without her ratting him out. Then again, she’s just as likely to tattle to him about Peter so he supposes it evens out.

Peter kisses his forehead and he closes his eyes and relaxes into it, imagining it soothing away the aching pressure built up behind his eyes and cheekbones. He’s so tired of his face hurting.

“Are you mad at me?” Peter asks, a twinkle in his eyes hinting that he’s not being entirely serious.

His voice comes out garbled and rough as he asks, “What’d I be mad about?”

“I dunno but a guy’s gotta wonder why else he’d find his likeness dismembered on the kitchen table.”

He rolls his eyes. “Dropped my keys,” he explains shortly. “Spidey paid the price. I’ll fix him up later. Nothin’ I’m not used to,” he adds with a pointed look.

This time it’s Peter who rolls his eyes. “Whatever, it’s not like I haven’t made up for it this week.”

“One week of helpin’ me out while I’m sick doesn’t make up for _seven years_ of me piecin’ you back together every night.”

“Yeah, okay maybe not,” he admits. “You didn’t really answer earlier. How are you feeling? D’you think you’re up for a surprise?”

He eyes him warily. “What kind of surprise? Like when you surprised me with a new knife that you carried home in your ribcage or—,”

 _“No,_ like when Mr. Stark surprised Rhodey with that trip to Jamaica only uh, cheaper and umm, colder. Actually, maybe that’s not a good comparison. Forget I brought that up. It’s more like—,”

“Darlin’, just show me what you wanna show me.”

“Okay, but you have to get up.”

He groans and pulls the blanket over his head.

“Pleeeaaase,” Peter wheedles, half-heartedly trying to peel the blanket back. “Harley, baby, please? I worked really hard on it and I promise you’ll love it. I mean, I think you’ll love it. You’ll probably like it.”

“You need to work on your salesmanship.”

“Please?” Peter asks, softly, pathetically.

He sighs and pulls the blanket back just far enough to poke his nose free and reveal the pitiful look on Peter’s face.

“Does it involve soup?”

“I… yes,” Peter admits reluctantly.

“Did you make the soup?”

“No, I picked it up from Delmar’s on the way home.”

His stomach growls. “Okay, fine.”

“Yes!” Peter jumps to his feet. “This is perfect. You won’t regret it, I swear. I mean, you probably—,”

“Pete,” he sighs.

“Right, right. Stay here, I’m gonna get the stuff!”

‘The stuff’ ends up being half of their bedroom.

“Hey babe? Have you seen my slippers?” Peter calls from behind a heaping armful of blankets and pillows.

Harley glances at the end of the couch where the Spider-Man slippers sit innocuously on his feet.

“Nope.”

Twenty minutes later, Peter herds him out the front door and towards the stairwell.

“I didn’t realize this surprise involved leaving,” he grumbles, hitching his blanket tighter in the drafty stairwell as Peter starts up the stairs, skipping every other step like he’s got something to prove.

“Just get up here,” Peter demands, voice muffled by the mountain of fabric in his arms.

He sighs and unhappily starts up the steps after him. He should have asked more questions before agreeing. Then again, how could he have anticipated that Peter’s surprise would lead him to the _roof_ in the middle of _December?_

He shoulders through the roof access door and stops.

Twinkling strands of lights criss-cross the patio area as snow cascades all around, stirred by a stiff breeze. Under the lights, Peter is arranging the contents of their bedroom into a nest as the city beyond the low wall bordering the roof glimmers under a blanket of white. A space heater connected to the building with a worrisome number of extension cords is positioned nearby, glowing a dark orange against the black sky.

“Harls? You coming?”

He shakes himself out of his stupor and joins him in the nest, perching atop a pillow.

Peter doesn’t hesitate to cuddle up beside him and swathe the pair of them in blankets. It’s… nice. Nicer than he thought it’d be. Their combined body heat with the assistance of the space heater keeps the worst of the winter chill away. Their stuff is going to be damp from the snow but as Peter’s hand finds his under the blankets and laces their fingers, he finds that he can’t bring himself care much about it.

“Soup?” Peter offers, holding up an unfamiliar thermos.

He accepts it, holding it between his knees as he uncaps it one-handed. “Where’d you get this?”

“Mr. Delmar. I promised I’d give it back first thing tomorrow.”

He huffs softly and takes a cautious sip. Flavor explodes across his tongue for the first time all week—hot and brothy and delicious. He closes his eyes and savors it. If he wasn’t already married to the cutest idiot in New York he’d demand Mr. Delmar’s hand.

Alas.

“Mmm tell Mr. Delmar he’s a saint,” he murmurs before taking a longer drink. He sinks against Peter’s side as the soup settles in his belly, warming him from the inside out.

Peter snorts. “Sure, Mr. Delmar’s the hero here.” He takes the thermos and sips from it slowly.

“Yeah, exactly. Glad we’re on the same page,” he responds dryly. “I bet you thought all of this up spur of the moment this afternoon and it was only by Mr. Delmar’s good graces that you managed to pull it off. Whose lights are these?”

“Ned’s,” he admits, reluctance heavy in his tone.

“Mr. Delmar and Ned then,” he says, fighting off a grin at the pout on Peter’s face.

“But it was still my idea! I think I did okay,” he says, frowning up at the fairy lights with a critical eye.

He follows his gaze. From this angle, he can see they’re stuck on with small splatters of webbing.

“You did more than okay,” he tells him, honest this time. “This is really nice.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks, expression almost shy. Hopeful. “You like it?”

He leans in and kisses him softly. “Yeah. You did good.”

Peter smiles and ducks his head, fiddling with the lid to the thermos. “Thanks.”

“What’s the occasion anyway?” he asks. “You proposin’?”

Peter snorts. “Again? Nah. I just…” He looks up at the sky, the worry-lines that are often so prominent, erased as he tracks a snowflake’s descent. “I was swinging home and the snow was so pretty and I was thinking about you and I wanted to do something nice. Wanted to make you feel good even though you don’t feel good, you know?”

He glows under the soft golden lights as he watches the falling snow, dark eyes wide with wonder.

That piece of his heart that he gave away years ago—dropped unceremoniously into Peter’s hands without expecting anything in return, without knowing where it would lead or whether they could withstand the storms inherent in the life of a vigilante—throbs.

“Yeah. I know.” He rests his head on his shoulder and Peter tucks him in closer, securing his arm around his shoulders. He squeezes the hand still clasped in his under the blanket and says quietly, “I love you.”

Peter kisses the top of his head and rests his cheek atop it before saying, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Serotonin Wednesday! Did you guys think I'd leave you hanging right before Christmas?? Think again!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fluffy little ditty. Stay safe and warm out there! Come follow me on Tumblr @sarah-sandwich!


End file.
